


never give up on you

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He's my home / And he's much apart for this broken heart / See broken bones always seem to mend.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	never give up on you

**Author's Note:**

> Title and subtitle taken from "[Devil's Tears](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yQTGyYg0_E)" by Angus & Julia Stone.

Relief – that's the first thing, the biggest thing. Relief because he's through, relief because he's done, relief because he can finally stop _running_. He screams and he doesn't recognize himself, doesn't know where it came from: the noise and the overwhelming emotion and the relief, relief, relief.  
  
He collapses on the court, he finds himself gasping, pumping his arms, and there's so much joy. There's happiness and there's peace and so many other things – there's blindness, as he looks into the sky, into the lights, into the thousands of people that are all watching. He stares upward but he can't see, he stares and there's nothing else, just this.  
  
(Except.)  
  
Except, it's Andy, _Andy_ on the other side of the net. It's Andy who's turned his face upwards too, up towards the darkness, heaving; who looks like he doesn't feel anything, just like he's trying to find energy to keep going: one more ball, one more get, one more _point_. It's Andy, who stumbles towards him and collapses into him and they both nearly go tumbling except for the net between them. Andy, who doesn't say anything, not even the things that he means to, ends up opening his mouth and nothing comes out.  
  
Novak steps away, claps along with the crowd as Andy leaves the court, disappears into the tunnel for the second time that they've done this. Novak doesn't think, can't think, turns towards the crowd, raises his arms because he's _won_ , and he's relieved. He's happy.  
  
(Except, except, except.)  
  
  
  
  
The press ask him about Andy, just like they did last year, just like they will for the next five. They ask him about how Andy has gotten better: how he's grown, his forehand, how the match was. "Yes," Novak says, because there's nothing else to say. "Yes," Novak says because they still don't understand, they will never understand, and it's well past one in the morning and now the relief has melted away.  
  
"I mean, he's so close to winning the Grand Slam. He's one of the best players in the world, that's for sure," he says because it's _true_ , and that hasn't changed.  
  
  
  
  
Novak used to think, once, that he bled tennis, that he would bleed _yellow_ , when his veins were cut open. He grew up knowing that there was nothing else, nothing but this; that he needed to live and sleep and breathe and _choke_ on tennis. That tennis was inside him in ways that nothing else was: felt and netting and the whistling of balls through the air.  
  
He and Andy, he thinks, they're both the same that way – they're both yellow-blooded – because that's the only way that anything makes sense, the only thing that explains _them_. He bleeds yellow, he still thinks, but, but, but.  
  
But it's red too. It might be yellow, felt and court and air, ball tosses and volleys and touch that can't be taught, but it's also _heart_ that flows through them.  
  
  
  
  
He spends the night twisting and turning and wondering. He wakes up and he can't figure what it is that he was dreaming about; he wakes up not being able to pinpoint why his jaw is sore, why his tear ducts feel used. _Andy_ , he thinks, as he musses himself further in the sheets and doesn't fall asleep.  
  
And it's not until later, until the light is bleeding into the room and he is awake, awake but unrested, that he recognizes the guilt.  
  
  
  
  
He wanted it, of course he wanted it, but he feels worse about that now. He respects Andy too much, cares too much, but he still won't, still _can't_ , give it up himself. Andy deserves it – deserves this so much – and more, he deserves the _whole world_ and Novak wishes he could be the one to give it to him. (Except.) Except he can't be, because he's too selfish, because there's a fine line between sympathy and pity. Because it's Andy's blood and sweat and tears and if it was anything less than Andy's entire being that finally got him there, it wouldn't be the same, wouldn't be enough.  
  
Because Novak knows. He knows how it is to lose over and over and over again; to have the weight of an entire world upon his shoulders and to have even more than that, to have _family_. He knows how it is to be told that it's a long shot, that you'll never be good enough, that you're crazy for ever thinking...  
  
He knows.  
  
  
  
  
Andy has always cared too much, has tread too close. Andy has never been able to take the tennis out of their relationship, and Novak remembers how Andy used to avoid him for days on end when they were younger, how Andy needed to remind himself that Novak was his rival and not his friend. Novak remembers him coming back days later, weeks later, with too much steel in his gaze. With wall after wall, built up, that Novak would try to break down again.  
  
And that was _okay_. Because Novak understood what it was like, even if he wasn't the same way, knew how hard it was to play your closest friends, to try to _beat_ them. It was okay because it was still the two of them against the world and whenever Andy was singed, close to burning, Novak was there to pull him back, even when, inevitably, it was Novak who singed him.  
  
  
  
  
He runs into Kim that afternoon, after he gets back to the hotel, after practice and press and treatment, after the million and one obligations. He runs into Kim in the hallway and it's dim and he can't read her eyes and her hair's falling over them. He stops without thinking and she does too, turns towards him like she doesn't want to, and he asks her, because he _has_ to, because he can't not: "How is he?"  
  
He asks her and her mouth tightens and she says, "Okay." She looks at him then, actually looks, like it's _not_ okay, but that it will be. She looks at him like she doesn't understand why he'd ask at all and he thinks, "Because that's what friends _do_."  
  
That's what _brothers_ do, he thinks as she looks, and they're nothing less than that, the two of them, not now. They're brothers because he knows Andy better than Andy knows himself and because Andy knows him too, even if neither of them have the words to say it. They're brothers because they've grown up together, because Andy's always _been_ there; because of the way Andy's neck feels under his palm when they hug over the net, the way that the sweat and tears mix together on his skin where Andy's face lays.  
  
  
  
  
Novak promises to beat Rafa for Andy because he always does, except this time it's into the thin air; imagines Andy saying, "Kick his ass for me," and how he might smile, except it's sad. Novak promises, promises to do what Andy doesn't have the chance to, and knows that he'll never try less than giving everything that he is.  
  
He promises, even though he knows that tomorrow Andy will go to the press, tell them that he thinks that Rafa will win, because that's what _he_ always does. He always picks Rafa because, whatever else Andy is, he's always a pessimist. He picks Rafa because even though he works hard, has confidence, believes in himself, he still (still, still, still) can't shake the idea that the worst will always happen. He says Rafa because it's Andy and therefore what he thinks always comes before what he wants and he _thinks_ that it will always be Rafa and never, never, never himself.  
  
He always picks Rafa because maybe one day (maybe tomorrow) it will stop being true.  
  
  
  
  
There's a knock on Novak's door and it's Saturday night and he's finally done for the day. He hasn't ordered room service and he grumbles as he gets up to answer it, wondering if Marian's going to drag him out again.  
  
It's not Marian, though, it's not Miljan or Jelena or anyone. It's _Andy_. And Novak is dumbstruck because he never sees Andy after he's done with a tournament, never sees Andy after a _loss_ , least of all when it's Novak that Andy loses to. There's a text that he'll send, when he figures that Andy's far enough away, when he's on a plane on his way to London or Miami or the next tournament and can't respond right away (not that he _would_ , but). Novak just sends a text because that's enough, because anything more than that is ridiculous, is false-sympathy that neither of them need. All that really needs to be said is "Good tournament. You'll get it next time."  
  
He never _sees_ Andy.  
  
He's still caught in that thought, could forever be caught in that thought, except for Andy looks at him right in the eyes (and he doesn't do _that_ either, he stares at the ground or past Novak or frantically from side to side, never focusing). He looks at Novak and he fiddles with his hands and _why is Andy here_.  
  
He asks Novak if he can come inside and his voice is gravel, lower than gravel, scratchy from misuse. From silence or screaming and Novak can never really tell, but at least Andy's hands aren't bloody. And all Novak can say is "of course" and "what are you doing here" and "do you want something to drink" because he has no idea what he's supposed to say, what he's supposed to _do_.  
  
"Andy," he says and Andy sits down on his couch, tucks his feet under him, doesn't say anything, not for a while. Andy doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to: the fact that he's even there says more than enough. The fact that Novak can sit next to him, and place a hand on Andy's shoulder, can pull Andy closer to him, until they're entangled, until Andy's nose is damp against his shirt, says everything.  
  
Novak doesn't know what it means; he doesn't get it, except that, somehow, it's them against the world, again. That Andy's found himself back at Novak's side, where he always has been, really, even when they had both forgotten. Novak's not sure what to expect, doesn't understand how so much has changed when he wasn't watching, when Andy became this man in front of him and not the boy that he grew up with, but he holds Andy tighter, breathes in and never closes his eyes.

 


End file.
